Descent
by Bluer Sky
Summary: The story of Hades, Persephone, and their descent into darkness. AUmodern times
1. Chapter 1

A/N: Reposted, very slight changes from last time. A modern interpretation of Hades and Persephone, keep in mind that these characters have many different sides to them. You'll see what I mean.

Disclaimer: I don't own the Greek myths. I own this modern retelling, and the modern characters. I also own my own imagination, I hope. This fanfic in set in Baltimore, as you will come to see. There's no particular reason I chose it, just because. I don't live in Baltimore, and I never have. All my information on it comes from Wikipedia and driving above on it on the Beltway. Residents of Baltimore, forgive me.

* * *

LETHE

"I have a business proposition for you."

The voice echoes across the conference table-red mahogany, I note to myself. Pretty darn expensive. Jude's been doing well for himself.

Of course, so have I. I've been doing extremely well for myself. And for Jude as well, but that's of lesser immediate importance to me.

I don't even look up from cleaning my fingernails with my switchblade. Cliché thing to do, I know. It works great for scaring the hell out of certain fellas. Jude isn't one of those fellas, but that's more because he's known me all his life.

"Everythin's a business proposition to yeh, bro." I throw the knife onto the expensive, red mahogany conference table. It makes a mark, but Jude doesn't even flinch. _That's_ how well he's done for himself. "Let me guess. 'Nother yur rivals up again?"

He nods. I've known Jude all his life, just like he's known me all mine. I love him like a brother, _more _than a brother in fact, cus I distinctly remember stabbing my older brother in the leg when I was ten, before all the foster homes.

But that's a bygone. A long dead memory.

My point here is, I've known Jude all his life. All of it that counts, 'nway. He's a brother afta my own heart, ya know? But 'e can get, well, repetitive. Like now, f'example. Right now, Jude's gonna tell me ta make sure no enemies of 'is gonna get in the way of 'is company. Then 'e's gonna go home an' sleep with anyone 'cept his wife.

"Well, should I kill 'em for you, for should I simply assist in their economic ruin?" I ask, calmly. I've done this a hundred times before.

He's frowning. Then he's shaking his head.

"No," he says. "No, it would look too suspicious, their chief executive dropping dead while on the rise to threaten Pantheon Industries. God knows, I have the district attorney on my case enough as it is. No...it's gotta be subtle."

"Financial ruin?" I suggest, putting my feet up on the table. Black hiking boots, still grimy from the streets.

Jude thinks about this. He doesn't find any better alternative, and eventually shrugs. Like I say, repetitive.

"Make it seem like coincidences. Two or three unfortunate incidents, which have absolutely nothing to do with Pantheon. And no murders. That attorney bitch turned up again yesterday, and so did that journalist bitch. God, I hate journalists."

He stubs out his cigar, and stomps around the room, making a point of this. Then he looks up at me.

"Why aren't you gone?" he asks in surprise. My brother's got a point in this. I would usually slip out in silence while he was busy going on about journalists.

I smirk at him.

"Don't you like my company, bro?" I move my boots off the table and let them fall to the floor heavily, using the momentum to stand up. "I'm hurt, bro."

Jude looks at me. That blue-eyed stare still has command in them, and the power to make junior vice presidents want to jump through the nearest window. Too bad I'm immune to it, by now.

"Don't play games with me." he warns me, in a low dangerous voice. I throw my head back and laugh. It reminds me of the street, where life was anything but a game. Unlike our lives now, of course.

"Hey now." I say. "Calm down. It's just the small issue of my pay that we've got to talk about, now."

"Your payment? You'll get your payment. With Pantheon's next government payment, like we always do."

Let me explain for a bit here. Pantheon is widely known as the single best company for weapons aircraft. Fighter jets? They've got it. Stealth helicopters? They've got it. Micro Ultra-Biotic Light Adapter? (Don't ask, I don't know) Yep, they've got it, whatever the hell it is.

Anyways, the point is. Pantheon majorly supplies for the U.S. military, although they do quite a bit of selling to wealthy individuals and even other nations. How does the military cope with this? It simply makes sure it puts in the largest orders of weapons, making Pantheon the only company of its' class in the weapons aircraft industry.

The thing is, Jude likes to keep it that way. That's where I come in. I go and threaten/cajole/assassinate/financially ruin people out of enterprising in the industry. In return I get lots of cash, and weapons if I happen to want them. Call me a stock investor. I just take an active part in making sure that stock comes to cash.

So that's the explanation. Back to the actual conversation.

"I want another payment." I lean over the table, annunciating very clearly. People who know me well know this as a warning sign that I'm completely serious.

"What more do you want, Lethe? I pay you weapons and cash. What more have you ever wanted?"

"I want your daughter."

♠♠♠

JUDE

"I want your daughter." Lethe says, annunciating clearly. He's completely serious about this.

As my mind quietly reels in shock, my mouth opens to say,

"Which one?"

Yes, that's a bastard thing to say. One, because it implies I've agreed to Lethe's demand. Two, because it also implies that I can't keep track of the children I've fathered that I even know about. Which is basically true.

As for the first implication, well, I haven't agreed to anything yet.

"Korianne." he smiles, revealing white canines. He's painted all his other teeth black, so his mouth appears to be four sharp teeth in a sea of dark.

Korianne. I'm trying to remember that name. Korianne...I'm pretty sure I don't have a daughter with that name...

"Proserpine." he supplies. "That's her last name."

And it all comes flooding back.

Sarasé Proserpine was the most headstrong woman I've ever met. A stirring speech-maker, an ambitious political riser, an activist at one point, and a strong feminist. I'm still surprised I ever slept with her.

I met our daughter once, when she was thirteen. Two years ago, now. We were at a feminists convention, and I was addressing the crowd about how Pantheon was an equal op employer, and to introduce my CEO of Management, Elizabeth Parker. Halfway through my speech, I noticed her. She was sitting, whey-faced with shock. I was pretty shocked too. Of course, a major factor was the teenage girl sitting next to her.

When I got down, Sarasé had nodded stiffly and introduced her daughter. Then she took my aside and asked my what _I _was doing_ here_ and that I had better not ever cross her path again. And I haven't, so far.

But how on earth did Lethe meet her?

"She's only fifteen." I say.

Of course, he knows by that sentence that I'm going to give in. And he doesn't even realize what a precarious situation I'm in. The government is threatening to shut Pantheon down if I don't stop selling to foreign countries and individual buyers. They want me to be a government-owned company. But I can't do that. I just can't. I'm going to need Lethe's support as much as possible.

He smirks at me, saying,

"She's sixteen. Her birthday was passed two weeks ago."

Well, he seems to know her better than I do. And Lethe, contrary to what others-and himself- will say about him, he's not a cruel man. He's not a good man either, but who is, really?

I say nothing. In my mind, I've already agreed. But I can't say it.

The silence stretches. It is like an emptiness between us, and sound waves will just get lost and wither up in a great void.

Eventually, Lethe breaks it.

"So," he says, speaking the words that I couldn't. "I can have your daughter."

A pause.

I nod.

That night, I am haunted by visions of a girl being pulled down into shadows, amongst pale demons.

* * *

If you liked, review. Or don't. But really, reviewing is good. Very good. 


	2. Chapter 2

A/N: It took me a long time to decide to post this. I'm glad I did though, I want to get on with the story. Expect a revised chapter to be posted in a few weeks, it's just what I always do. You don't have to read it though.

Disclaimer: I don't own the Greek myths. I own this modern retelling, and the modern characters. I also own my imagination, or so I hope. This fanfic is set in Baltimore, for no particular reason. I don't live in Baltimore, and never have. All my information on it comes from Wikipedia. Residents of Baltimore, forgive me.

* * *

KORIANNE

Usually I think things don't change in my life often enough.

This time though, I ended up taking back that opinion. My life is moving way too fast for me to follow.

I currently attend Cristina Gurthward Private School for Talented Girls. Exactly who Cristina Gurthward was, or why she would want to build a boarding school for the spoiled daughters of old rich guys, is up to debate. Add to the fact that this is in _Baltimore_, and you've got a seriously messed up school. But I digress.

Things haven't been the same since Sarasé left for D.C. I've been shipped to this stupid, stupid, _stupid_ school and left behind in Baltimore while Sarasé lives it up in a fancy apartment in Georgetown.

Sometimes I...

I'll never ever tell her this, but I wish sometimes that Sarasé would come and spirit me away. I could leave behind all the snobbish girls with their Coach purses and allowances higher than their collective I.Q. I would never see the pretentious red bricks again, or the huge ostentatious sign proclaiming the name in brass letters. I would never come back, unless it was to gloat.

Of course, she wouldn't do that, even if I asked her. No, even if I _begged _her to. Which is precisely why I'm not. Sarasé has probably forgotten that I exist. In fact, if not for the checks I get every month, I _don't_ exist in her life. Her new life, I mean. She's left me behind and I hate her for it.

♥♥♥

JUDE

The dream went like this.

I am standing on the edge of a great canyon. It stretches down for forever into the darkness. Although it is deep, it is not wide. I can see the other side, a stone's throw away.

It is bright, although my side is dim, a twilight place.

Children play on the other side, tossing red balls into the air. They twist in motion, going up ponderously and coming down even slower.

Apart from the laughing children is a girl. The girl. She is watching the children play. I can only see her profile, her expression unreadable. Her black hair and copper skin are utterly reminiscent of her mother, and I can tell from my limited view of her that she would have the same straight nose and strong chin as Sarasé. Her eyes are all mine though, bright, intense blue.

White light swamps everything, blocking my view of the field, the children, the girl. A shrill scream shatters the light into a thousand pieces.

I can see everything clearly, suddenly. The children are still playing, their games uninterrupted by the scream. I look everywhere for the girl, but cannot locate her.

Then she appears directly before me; In the abyss.

The gaping air had been replaced by a thick black muck, but somehow I can see all the way through it. The girl is drowning, fighting for her life. She is being pulled into the abyss by skeletal, grinning demons.

I watch calmly, as the skeletons drag her down and down. I couldn't reach her even if I tried; my feet are stuck firmly into the muck.

She turns to me, her eyes meeting mine. Her expression is desperate, she works her mouth frantically, trying to tell me something. But no sound comes out.

Then the abyss she's trapped in becomes a great crocodile, who swallows her whole. It is entirely white, the teeth and claws purest ice, the ridges of its' scales ivory crests on an alabaster sea. It turns to look at me, and I see the beast's eyes are black. They blaze darkly for a moment, then white becomes black and black becomes white and the black swamps the eyes, and everything is in darkness. The crocodile, the demons, the girl, are all gone, leaving me surrounded in utter night.

Then I'm out of bed like a shot, brewing coffee and waiting for the dream to fade.

Except it doesn't.

It doesn't take a genius to analyze the dream, especially considering the transaction from earlier this afternoon.

That's how I like to think of it. A transaction. And that's all it is. For heaven's sake, I don't even know the girl! I've only ever seen her once.

So why haven't I been able to stop thinking of her since Lethe left?

Looking out my window at the rich mansions and sweeping drives that neighbor my house, I wonder where my foster brother is. I wonder if my daughter has already been taken, down to the underground kingdom that my brother has made his own. I wonder if she's terrified. I wonder if she wants to go home, if she can't sleep at night because the eyes of drug dealers and serial rapists and murderers are watching her.

I wonder...

I put my mug of coffee down. There's no point to thinking like this, it doesn't take back the deal I made, and it certainly won't save my daughter. Korianne.

I wish I didn't know her name.

♦♦♦

LETHE

I can see her through the window.

It is a layer of glass behind a layer of night, separating us. I think that maybe I could watch her forever, trapped behind the window. _She will be mine soon._ It is the thought that sustains me.

She is not plain, though she could be called so. She is beautiful in my eyes, but that isn't why I'm here.

I'm here because-

Because-

How the hell should I know?

I can't explain it.

I am hungry for her, a hunger that can only be half-fulfilled by watching her from the back of this empty parking lot. I gauge the distance between us; it can't be more than one hundred feet.

It feels like a thousand miles.

She is reading, her face framed in the light of the lamp. Whatever she's reading, it's making her smile.

I think that maybe I should give the order. My men are waiting, and they will wait all night, all day, and all week if necessary.

But I want to burn this moment onto my memory, an eternal night of _her_, before she was mine.

I grip the steering wheel tightly with my hands, but I will not leave until the dawn breaks.

* * *

More coming not-so-soon. Wait patiently.  



	3. Chapter 3

**A/N: Well here it is. Ladies and gents, the third chapter. Long may it live.**

So let me apologize. I am a slow writer. A very slow writer. This isn't necessarily a bad thing. I like time to go over my plotline, my dialogue, my word choice. I like to make things as good as I can for my readers.

And that brings me to my apology. I'm so sorry for making all of you wait so long for such a short, crappy chapter. Although if I'm not much mistaken, this is longer than the others. But still.

You guys have one person to thank first and foremost for this chapter being posted here, as opposed to a year from now. That person is **A Rose for Emily**, and I want **you all** to thank her when **you review**. Profusely.

Also, since some readers have expressed their confusion over which character is which, there's a character guide at the bottom. In the meantime, sit back and relax.

SARASE

The aide same up to me, interrupting my speech.

"Telephone for you, Ms. Proserpine." He paused, and then whispered in my ear. "It's from the Baltimore City police."

The Baltimore police? What would they want with me? In spite of myself, my thoughts turn to Korianne. It's so hard, having a daughter like her…Guilt rushes through me, although I am quick to assure myself that she is perfectly safe at the boarding school, and I did absolutely right to send her there.

I make my excuses to the waiting crowd, flashing the smile I've practiced and perfected with hours in my apartment with a full length mirror, judging which way to tilt my head, what angle my eyes should be, debating whether I wanted dimples or not. It makes no difference what anyone says, appearance is everything.

I follow the aide off the podium, my high heels clacking sharply on the hardwood. The audience stretches and talks excitedly: I know from their reaction my speech is going well. There's a young journalist in the corner, trying desperately to catch up on his notes, and several security guards in the area look extremely bored. I walk backstage calmly.

It is quiet back here, away from the bustle of the crowd. A young woman is holding the telephone for me, saying, "She's here now," into the mouthpiece. She hands it to me.

The voice on the other side of the wire starts talking before the phone even reaches my ear.

"-lo, is this Mrs. Proserpine?"

"It's Miss," I correct him. "Miss Proserpine. I'm a little busy at the moment, so if you could-?"

The voice pauses.

"Ah, I see. I'll make this brief then. I'm afraid I have some bad news for you, Miss Proserpine."

Another pause, apparently for dramatic effect.

"Last night, your daughter went missing."

♣♣♣

KORRIANE

As soon as Diane's snores can be heard, I start counting.

One Mississippi, two Mississippi, three, four...all the way to three hundred. Then I open my eyes and grope for my flashlight. It helps to have a roommate that doesn't stay up all night painting her toenails.

Finding my flashlight at last, I switch it on and reach for my wallet, stashed under the bed. I already know I have enough cash at last, but I count anyways, just to be on the safe side. Then I stuff the money into my jeans pocket, pop out the safety screen of the window, and climb out into the night.

Diane doesn't even wake up.

♥♥♥

INTERLUDE

There was a van parked a block away from the private school, and it was there constantly. Occasionally it moved so no one would call the police, but mostly in stayed in a place where the men inside could see three out of the four exits of the school, and a clear view of the road leading from it.

There were three men inside the van. One was large and heavily muscled, a second was large, bald, and running to fat, but the third was neither large nor heavily muscled but somewhat weedy. It was this one that was keeping watch now. The other two were nodding to sleep over their beers.

The only physical characteristic that all three men shared was a small tattoo on the inside of their left wristbone.

The third man had canny eyes, brown feathery hair, and no name. He drummed his fingers on the side of his chair, glanced contemptuously over at his teammates, now all out snoring on the table. One of the beers had fallen over, and it lapped against their cheeks. The nameless man then returned to his sharp-eyed vigil.

A dark silhouette of a girl stepped out of a dorm window, swung herself onto a tree branch, and clambered down to the ground. She seemed to be headed somewhere.

The watcher leaned forward slightly. His face betrayed nothing, but his fingers drummed slightly faster.

Now this, he thought, I can work to my advantage.



KORRIANE

At first glance, there's nothing out of the ordinary about Lemmon Street. Glance a second time, and you might notice a small, dingy two-story shop halfway down. This would be taken by the casual observer as further proof of the extreme ordinariness of Lemmon Street, and so the casual observer would not bestow it a third glance.

But stepping inside the small, dingy shop you might find something rather extraordinary. It would not seem this way at first, as there's nothing about the interior to set it apart from any other neon-on-the-outside dim-on-the-inside shoddy little shop owned by a burly middle-aged man who drinks too much of his own beer.

Of course, you would have to talk to the man himself to realize that while his breath stinks of liquor, his eyes are anything but dull. And that there are the same three heavyset men with him at all times, who look suspiciously like bodyguards. Or that he can lay his hand on anything a customer needs, be it semiautomatic TEC-9s or zip-lock bags of GHB.

But that's not what I'm here.

You see, I've been thinking. Thinking about a lot of things, most of them concerning Mother, how much I hate Baltimore, and how much I liked Chicago last time I was there. Or really, how much I liked _anywhere _last time I was there. And I've been thinking for a while now, but now I'm really planning and I'm finally going to make my dreams a reality, after years of plotting and fantasizing. The thought scares me a bit, but I hope I have the courage to pull through with it. I really do.

The owner of the store is at the counter, sitting in a swivel chair. He's chewing his cigarette to pieces, and tobacco keeps falling off the end. He looks like his chair; bulky and moth-eaten. As I push open the grimy door, a wind chime rings. Chair Man looks up.

"Ggumf." he says to me. "Huurphha hek."

Wheeling his chair around, be pulls a trash can from some dust-filled corner. He spits the cigarette into it, followed by an enormous amount of loose tobacco. Coughing the last few pieces out, he leans back on the swivel chair and turns it around to face me.

"Fags." he spits. "Gotna fhlava."

I take a moment to decipher this. I'm not entirely sure I understood it at all, but it's not like I give a crap, so really, it works out fine.

"Do you have it yet?" I say. "It's been three weeks already, and I have the money."

He sucks in his cheeks, slowly. He considers me with beady eyes. "Yeaah," he drawls out. "I ga' it. Bu' ahh you shuh you ga' the money?"

"_I_ have the money. Last time I came you didn't have everything I asked for."

He scowls at me. The two bodyguards by his side scowl too, except much more impressively. Mister Tobacco Chewer just looks like a dying toad.

"Save yur lip," he hisses at me. "An' gimme the money."

"Fine. Whatever."

I pull out my wallet, making sure we can see it's full. His eyes flicker suspiciously for a moment, than he opens a drawer under the grimy counter and takes out a yellow mailing envelope. I take out the money and give it to him, taking the envelope in the same motion.

He counts the money and I check the papers in the envelope. Everything's there, driver's license, passport, fake identity. My new name is Kate Rosenbloom, 18. Taking a year off college to travel the world, birthday March 16th, drives an old Mercury. Has a permanent home and two married parents, has a dog in the backyard, lives in a suburb somewhere. Calls home every Friday.

I wish.

Stuffing everything back into the envelope, I turn and rush out the door.

Suddenly overtaken by a strange rush of euphoria, I start running. I remember enjoying, for the first time in years, the rush of wind on my face, the thrill of stretching my young legs, the joy of leaving the shop on Lemmon Street and its' morbid owner behind. Of leaving this entire damn city behind.

I grin with the sheer pleasure of it all, feeling a laugh trickle up my throat. Sliding to a halt on an empty street corner, I look up at the sky. For the first time in years, I see the stars over Baltimore. No sky has ever looked so beautiful.

I spread my arms like a bird, take deep breaths, feeling the autumn chill clean the smoke and fog of the city out of my lungs, feeling freer than I have ever felt.

I fumble for the envelope; draw out my new name, my new identity. I hold it up to the moonlight, and run my fingers over the smiling picture of Kate Rosenbloom.

"Freedom," I whisper. My voice cracks. Tears start to run down my face, and my open mouth catches them. I exult in the thrill of adrenaline that runs through my limbs, my heart is pumping hard in my chest. I can't stop smiling.

"Freedom!"

That was when the bag dropped over my head, and I everything I saw turned black.

And that, my beloved readers/reviewers (hopefully both) is the third chapter.

Here's the character guide you were promised:

Jude- Zeus

Ms. Proserpine- Demeter

Korianne- Persephone

Lethe- Hades

No one else, so far.

I'm having major issues with this story. I think I wrote the entire first chapter completely wrong, so I'll have to go back and fix that. I really don't feel like it though. Please, review. I really appreciate, and I really need to learn from it.

The fourth chapter is going to be a long while coming. I can tell you that much right now.

In the meantime, I'm deciding to add something onto my chapters called the

**Author Recomendations**

Book: **The Book Thief** A portrait of WWII Germany, that isn't totally cliche and uses the most original imagery ever. Weird is the best part about it.

Movie: **Fearless**. It's smart action. You don't see that a lot.**  
**

Music: **"Konstantine"** by **Something Corporate**

Show: **30 Rock** on NBC. _So_ funny.

Fanfic Author: **Tinn Tam.** He writes really great HP fics.


	4. Chapter 4

SARASE

SARASE

It was the oddest sensation.

I could feel my heart bursting out of my chest, and at the same time, I felt nothing. My head was clear. My breathing felt normal. I looked down at my hands; they were not shaking. I tried out my voice.

"Missing? Are you sure?" My voice was calm, collected. I felt a spike of self-loathing deep in my belly.

The police officer, on the other hand, seemed relieved not to have a hysterical mother on his hands.

"We're sure, ma'am. The private school she was enrolled in? Christina Gur- Gruth-Guth-"

"Christina Guruthward." I said automatically. "What about it?"

"Yes. The—school. They've just reported that she's missing since this morning. Apparently, the windows in her dorm room were open, so we assume she left sometime during the night."

"Left? On her own free will? How do you know that?"

"There was only one set of footsteps in the vicinity. The ground was extremely muddy, if someone had kidnapped her, they would have left tracks."

"Oh." I feel befuddled, as if someone had put me under hypnosis. I feel frustrated, because this news could not have come at a worse time. And I feel angry, because _no one_ takes something of mine without my say-so.

I consider what to say for a moment.

The policeman mistook my silence for grief.

"Don't be worried, ma'am," he soothed. "I'm sure she'll turn up sooner or later. They usually do, you know. And we've got quite a few leads already so—"

"What are they?" I snap, suddenly jolted into motion again.

"Excuse me?" said the startled policeman. "What are what, exactly, ma—"

"Leads. What _leads _do you have?" I gesture impatiently, even though he can't see me. My aides eye me warily; they know this can't be good news.

I can hear his Adam's Apple going up and down on the other end of the line. Maybe he's realizing the hole he's dug himself into. I can imagine his eyes bugging out a deep-sea fish, suddenly brought up to the surface, and I try not to clench my fists.

I suddenly cannot stand staying here, away from my city and my daughter, any longer. My skin itches with the urge to flee, my legs ache with a need to seek what has been taken from me, and my heart feels, unexpectedly and unwantedly, as though it had been torn into little paper pieces.

I hang up on the silent officer and run—run, out of the building, out of my ambitions, out of everything I thought I had wanted, to seek what I had lost, and, in some way, had never found.

I am coming, my daughter.

JUDE

Maybe it was my dream, or maybe it was just recent events catching up to me, but I've found myself thinking about Sarase lately. My old lover, and my old enemy.

I met her on a terrible night in Baltimore, coming back from an exhausting conference. This was when I was still a young man, not yet tutored in the ways of business, not yet successful, just another college grad with a burning desire to make something powerful and ruthless out of himself.

It was a cheap hotel that I came back to, all peeling wallpaper and hateful clerks. I despised it. It represented everything I was at that moment, everything I was trying to pull myself from. It was so desperately lower class: And I was set upon other things, things that looked, from my perspective at the time, impossible.

I stopped by my room to drop off my briefcase. It was, as I had said, a terrible night, and I was in a vicious mood. I wanted to sleep, or beat someone up in a nameless alley, or go whoring, or all three. When I walked out of that room, looking for trouble, I heard voices.

They were coming from the conference room down the hall, the room that I could not remember being used in my months living there. Curious, I walked down and listened at the door.

It was a feminists' conference, and the current speaker had a remarkable speech-making capability. I had never had any talent at that sort of thing, and I marveled at this nameless woman's flair for words.

The conference soon ended, and the women walked out, most looking suspicious at finding me at the door. But the woman I was looking for was still in the dingy room, shuffling up her notes.

I walked in.

"That was quite an extraordinary speech," I said, trying to put the same flourish into my words. I found myself wanting to impress this woman; it was an unfamiliar feeling, but not a wholly unwelcome one.

She raised her brows.

"You were listening?"

I nod.

"But only for the last three minutes," I said, as if that made it less like eavesdropping.

"I see." She snapped the clasps on her bag shut, and swung it upon her shoulder. "Well, I'm glad you liked it, Mister..."

"Jude. Jude Thunderbolt. But I'm having it changed to just Bolt."

Her brows crinkled, and her lips curled into a small amused smile. "Thunderbolt?"

"I'm an orphan," I hastened to add. "I was named for the statue I was found under."

"Uh-huh," she said, her smile getting larger. "A statue. I suppose that must account for it."

I realized then that she was laughing at me, and when she laughed, her eyes sparkled, her face lit up, and my stomach felt like I had taken a blow.

"It could have been worse," I answered, unable to help it. "The statue was called 'God With a Thunderbolt in His Hand Passing Judgment upon the World.'"

Our shared laughter echoed through the halls of that dingy, moth-eaten hotel.

"So, Sir Statue," she said. "What brought you to the door of a little insignificant femme-group like us?"

"It won't be little nor insignificant for long with a speechmaker like you," I told her. She smiled at the flattery, but she didn't blush. I liked that about her.

"Actually," I continued, "I live down the hall from here. Just for the time being, you understand. In room 109." I said it importantly, although I could feel myself acting the fool. She raised her brows in half-condescending way and gave me a coy look.

Was she flirting with me?

...I hoped so.

When we finished talking, it had been well past an hour. She had made some vague comments on speaking at the hotel again; I had said something ambiguous about having a lot of free time at the hotel. We grinned at each other, delighted by our double-speak, and she walked off, never having told me her name or where I could find her. But Sarase was like that, and always has been.

As for me, I went back to my room, and I stayed there, watching the digital numbers on the clock change, hoping she would knock on the door even though I knew she wouldn't.

SARASE

The ride to Baltimore was excruciatingly long, even though it was barely three hours. My fists kept clenching my skirt, even though I took pains not to. I stared out the window, not speaking, not doing anything, and willed the traffic to pass by faster.

Like everything else, it refused to obey.

I was out the door of the car before it had fully pulled up in front of the Baltimore police station. I took, unsuccessfully, a moment to calm myself, and walk in, not quite composed.

The police give me nothing but empty promises, stale coffee, and old information. I am out of patience and out the door as quickly as I came.

Outside, I suck at the air desperately, like a smoker needing a hit. The air is cold and tastes foul. I contemplate the sky, standing outside my car. Gray as always, polluted and overcast. It seems like years since I have last seen it clear.

I remember this city, as it used to be. Or at least, how I used to know it. It held everything I could want in the world.

Now it offers me nothing.

As I get into the car, as bitter as the air in this foul place, I think of one person who ought to know about Korianne. Or should he? It had been years, after all, since I had seen him, much less spoken to him. He did not even know our daughter.

Does not, I remind myself. Does not.

But there is little else to do, and I bark sharp orders to the chauffer and wait to arrive at my destination.

And I breathe, in and out, of forgotten, elegiac memories.

JUDE

I am not entirely surprised when Sarase walked in through the supposedly locked door, her face unchanged from the one I remember from many years ago.

Make that a lie. I am _utterly_ surprised when she walked in, her confident, slightly arrogant features molding into recognition at the sight of me. I am speechless.

She is not. She never is.

"Hello, Jude," she says, very formally. "Please go send your secretary to make me a cup of coffee. It has been a long car ride from the District."

The secretary, standing warily at the door, immediately departs. I get the feeling she won't be back for a while. I hired her for her brains, you see.

Wish I could do the same. But it's time to face the fire, perhaps a little earlier than I had intended.

"Jude," she says. "You remember we have a daughter, do you not?"

Good old Sara. I might as well be a sperm donor. She clears her throat.

"Well, I received some unfortunate news today..."

I try my best to look both taken aback and concerned. Trying to bluff Sarase is as likely as riding bareback on a torpedo and about as dangerous.

"She—That is, Korianne—She—_She's missing_, Jude." Her voice cracks. Her fists clench. For a moment, and perhaps longer, her mask slips.

The bitterness, the helplessness in her, frightens me. She is, for the first time I have known her, in circumstances beyond her control.

I get off on it. It is so satisfying; to have finally wrought revenge on the one woman I could not hurt.

It must have shown. She looks up, and I can see it in her eyes—_She knows_.

SARASE

"You," I breathe. "You!"

We both jump to our feet at the same time, but Jude is wholly unprepared when I leap across the desk at him, lunging for his throat with a strength I did not know I had. Jude falls back, clutching at my hands. We tumble, locked together, over the desk, knocking papers and pens flying. A folder opens as it falls, scattering files all across the hardwood floor. A heavy paperweight smashes into the floor a foot from Jude's head. The glass splinters and breaks, flying in glittering pieces in all directions. One lodges in Jude's cheek, drawing a thin line of blood. Others glance across my hands and wrists, but my grip holds strong.

"Where is my daughter? What did you do to her!"

And Jude, that bastard, that total, inconceivably, unutterably evil bastard, looked at me with those smoky blue eyes and said:

"I think you know, Sarase."

And I shrieked, driven to new levels of hatred. The part of me that was coolly aloof—and taking notes should I need them later—was surprised. When was the last time I had lost control? Years ago, I'm sure. Yet here I was, screaming like a mad thing.

No longer faced with the element of surprise, Jude gripped both my wrists, pushing me away with his superior strength. Now we were standing inches apart, close enough to feel the other's hot breath caress our faces.

When my breathing is back under control, I speak. Jude has not said a word, only watched me with that unfathomable expression.

"What have you done. Tell me everything."

Self-control is key. If you do not have power over yourself, then you have nothing. I will contain my anger and my sorrow—until the time is right.

"I have sold her. You do not know his name; it is enough to know that nothing happens in this city that he does not know about. He owes allegiance to nobody, which is a rare enough thing that it is power in its own right."

"The mobsters?" I ask, watching his eyes. Small things anger him, but big things send him cold. His gaze flickered before he answered. Ah.

"Not any of the families."

Which could mean anything. But his eyes give him away.

"Where is she?"

"She could be anywhere, I'm afraid. He has access to everywhere in the city." Again, that flicker.

"Still in the city, then?"

"He would never leave the city."

"Then neither shall I." I pause, thinking through my options. There were so many things to consider and so few clues.

"Let me make this clear," I tell him calmly. "I will not leave until I find my daughter. _Our_ daughter," and enjoyed watching him flinch. "You can help me, or you can not. You don't have any political career, obviously, but I know enough to sully your company's name with Washington for a very long time. But, you being you, I'm sure you'll ferret your way to more easy money soon enough. So I'm going to say this, and then I'm going to give you a last chance to help me."

I lean in close enough to kiss him. That was years ago, of course.

"_You don't like this any more than I do_. Your eyes give you away. It must have been something terrible you've done for the guilt to show on your face, Jude. I know it's not a feeling accustomed to you," I say, keeping emotion strictly out of my voice.

He can't hold my gaze.

"I'm sorry," he says. "I can't help you." And he turns away.

I leave, a tightly controlled fury roaring behind my eyes.

Going out the building, a gentleman was kind enough to hold open the door for me whilst on the way in. He was also careless enough to drop a tightly folded piece of paper into my purse.

Behind the tinted windows of my Bentley, I unfold the note.

_Club Charon at midnight. Ask for Lorraine._

A simple message, but the best I have.

I look up through the car's windows. There, at the corner office on the fifteenth floor—the indistinct figure of man looking down as if trapped by a glass-and-steel prison. How I hated him for what he had done—Sold her? Sold her? As if he had a right—But I think I understand, a little.

Giving the chauffer instructions, I prepare for midnight.

AN: This is to tell you that I will try to update this story, but I sincerely doubt that'll happen. Other fandoms have caught my eye, I'm afraid.

Also, it's very likely that my pen name will change soon. Just a heads-up.


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